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I can tell he means a girl, but I don’t ask for details, and he doesn’t offer any up either.
    Short from carrying my books in a satchel, Robinson’s escort service (I wish) proves to be very gentlemanly and helpful. It’s the first time he’s been mistaken for the math building, despite the only two-letter difference in spelling. But the error is in my favor, I feel, as he deposits me at the threshold to Trig and actually shakes my hand. Skin on skin contact. I try not to melt into the floor or blush or barf. For now, I’m successful.
    “Thanks for being my personal map,” I say, leaning up against the wall, wishing the world would fade into the background and Robinson and I would have all day to talk.
    “Sure thing,” he says, slicking the hair out of his eyes. His white shirt is untucked and stained on the sides. He notices me notice this. “The curse of photo fluids. I have a habit of wiping my hands on my shirts — shouldn’t wear white, I guess.”
    The door opens and a slim, brown-bobbed lady appears with her arms folded against her non-existent boobs. “If you’re done socializing, I have some trigonometry to explain,” she eyes me up and down as if inspecting for turds. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
    Robinson shakes his head, clearly having dealt with Ms. Thompson before. I follow her inside but turn back just in time to get in, “I’m Love, by the way.”
    Robinson smiles his Cheshire grin, his eyes slightly sleepy. “I know who you are,” he says in a near-whisper and walks away.
    Inside Trig Hell, I proceed to be lectured by Ms. Thompson who doesn’t understand the overwhelming size and scope of the campus confusion I’ve had.
    “I’m sorry if the campus seems large to you, Ms. Bukowski, but I sincerely hope you’ll familiarize yourself with the maps provided in your new student handbook.” Yeah, okay bitchy lady — except I didn’t GET the handbook and new student welcome package because the administration office just assumed I’d be fine, what with being the principal’s daughter and all.
    “Sorry,” I say for the third time.
    Thompson fiddles with the yellow stick of chalk in her hand. “If your tendency towards tardiness should present itself again — well, let’s just try not to have this happen.”
    She doesn’t say I will most certainly be sent to the principal’s office, but I can hear it in her voice. Um, hi dad. After what’s left of class, Thompson gives me another blurb about how “that boy” isn’t worth jeopardizing my academic future. It’s the first damn day of class and already I have apparently succumbed to the evils of the male student body. Robinson Hall is “that boy.” Can’t say her warning made my interest in him dwindle.
    Second period is Great Works and Performances. In Hadley-speak this means English, and luckily for me, a girl from my math class looks over my shoulder at my schedule and swivels my body so it faces a set of stairs. “Up two floors and third door on the left.”
    Unlike the math and science rooms where chairs with those little bubble desks are set in neat rows, the English rooms are straight out of the catalogue. The room is sun-filled, warm with hanging plants and stacked books. In the center of the room there’s a large oval table and sturdy wooden chairs. I find a seat and slip my backpack under the table, following suit with everyone else. Ancient graffiti pocks the surface in front of me, quotations from 1960 ( Clapton vs. Hendrix = the ultimate showdown, Out of Vietnam!, Love You — ah, the irony of my name yet again) obsolete initials, a tiny perfect star someone — maybe many students over the years — have traced again and again. Around me, students sit down, chat to the familiar faces (total sum of familiar faces for me = 0), leaving the obligatory empty spaces next to me — New Girl cooties. The last to arrive is a guy in a gasoline attendant jacket that bears the name Gus across the left breast pocket.